The Price of Immortality
by King Dollophead
Summary: Merlin is a monster. Innocent people don't deserve the suffering that he has to endure. Of course he's a monster. He thought so when he learned of the prejudice against magic. He thought so when he found he couldn't die. He is cursed. And he wholly deserves it. (Slight trigger warning! One-shot. Merlin's thoughts on his powers and immortality. Emotional whump.)


A creature of magic cannot die. They can be injured, but they cannot die.

Most can be slain by a blade forged in a dragon's breath, as such a weapon is capable of burning away one's protective essence as well as their body.

There is one creature of magic who is immune even to this, however.

Its name is Emrys, and it knows for certain that it cannot die.

 _He_ would rather not say how he knows this. He would rather neglect this subject entirely. After all, the life of one who cannot perish is one of anguish; one of grief and isolation.

It had always been his fate, to live on forever. The many miraculous recoveries he had made should have been proof enough of this. He had simply refused to see it, blaming his prolonged life on his excessive and inexhaustible powers. They had been granted to him upon his conception—Hunith's many horror stories of spontaneous bursts of magic whilst with child confirmed this—but he had never wanted them. Who would want to be born with a price upon their head? Who would want to be born with the unmitigated belief that they are a monster, an abomination, something to be feared? Who would want to be born into a world where their head was almost certain to wind up on a silver platter? If such a preference existed, _Merlin_ didn't possess it.

Who would want to live everlastingly, collecting sorrows and regrets like stamps (Merlin found such items rather odd, upon their introduction), never able to relate to an age or another individual, eternally unable to maintain a friendship till the end, as no end (other than those of their loved ones) would ever enter their sight? Merlin certainly didn't.

Merlin knew, with absolute certainty, that death would never be a mercy granted to him. He was condemned upon his conception; every other curse had been acquired after that, warping him into something that he was quite sure resembled a monster. It did not matter how pure his heart was, for Fate had sentenced him to boundless torture. Merlin was rather ashamed to admit to himself that he would rather be evil and dead than good and ceaselessly alive.

It was not something for which he could be blamed—after all, no living creature desires perpetual agony. Nonetheless, he blamed himself, his self-image distorting from that of an innocent, pure-hearted boy with endearingly overlarge ears and eccentric tastes in fashion into a repugnant beast. _**Emrys**_.

Young Myrddin Aurelius Ambrosius had always been so kind, so pure, so full of light and wit—no one would ever have predicted the miscreation he would one day become. It seemed to be the same story, if he compared himself to Morgana; two innocent, unadulterated souls that would one day become tainted by darkness and powers that they had grown to fear.

If only the boy could see the difference; the two monsters in question were of completely dissimilar likes. Both had begun very much alike, but one became proud, cruel, and self-entitled; the other grew to be excessively humble, emotional, and self-deprecating. One was a monster because their hubris had achieved such a stature; the other was monstrous because their illimitable caring had turned to self-loathing. One put themselves above all else; the other put themselves far below.

Merlin didn't mind. He knew he deserved to be the lowest on the scale. Everyone had made that abundantly clear. That was fine. He was fine. Except that it wasn't. _He_ wasn't.

Emrys was someone Myrddin loathed. He himself was Emrys, and he hated him. Emrys hated Myrddin. Both hated each other dearly. The only compromise was Merlin, the no-man's land that was unclaimed, and yet, belonged to both parties; a simple boy with great power who hated playing the fool just as much as he loathed the role of almighty savior.

Merlin was a paradox. He was unprecedented, and yet, he had been spoken of for many ages before his own time.

Time. What a foolish concept. There are only moments, little compartments of history that trail one another, continuing on and on forever, like a runaway train on a straight, infinite track, forcing its riders to jump off and perish, or leap on and suffer.

Merlin was never allowed to leave that train; the conductor, Destiny, made sure of that.

He only hoped that, maybe one day, he would be able to strike down its engineer, Fate, and drive the vehicle off the tracks of Chance and into the sweet, blissful abyss of Nothingness.

He would never reach the front, however, for this train affixes new cars right behind the engine. Time is infinite, and thus, illegitimate; the cars would always be added, and no matter which one Merlin entered, he would always be the same distance behind Fate.

Maybe, if he kept venturing from car to car, he might find a familiar face. A familiar place. Destiny kept telling him that he would, and her sister, Hope, said very much the same thing. Only Fate could know for sure, though, and that was why he had set out on this impossible quest. Or so he told himself. Really, Destiny had picked up his mother and father, forced him into being, and left him in the clutches of Fate.

Fate was cruel. Destiny was, but to a lesser degree. Hope was merciless.

Hope was a liar.

Hope was a dagger. A whip. A mace. A sword. A bullet. The tip and shaft of a poisoned arrow.

Hope was his existence, when Destiny and Fate were so blatantly vindictive towards him.

Hope was his suffering. Hope was his salvation. Hope was his doom.

Hope was a double-edged sword, above all else.

How he wished he could wield an end that would not harm him, so that he might finally cease acquiring the numerous lacerations that mutilated his world-weary body.

He knew that Hope would always bite him, always pierce his skin. It would always draw blood, blood that would flow forever, be it through his veins, or out of his wounds.

One day, perhaps, it would dry. One day, perhaps, it would be allowed to scar. One day, perhaps, he would finally be drained of all life. Of all agony.

He knew that it could never be so. And yet, he still held the sword that was Hope, prepared to wield it against that which opposed him.

Every time he fumbled, he got a cut. Every time he clung to it, he got cut.

He would never win. He couldn't lose.

He would only exist, forevermore.


End file.
